


The Way The First Snow Fell

by theshipthatwasnevermeanttosail



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: AU, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Malec, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-08 15:34:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1946574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshipthatwasnevermeanttosail/pseuds/theshipthatwasnevermeanttosail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when a character falls in love with the reader? AU Verse, where anything is possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bookstore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo :) Here is a lil dedication to a long suffering couple.
> 
> Disclaimer: Nothing is owned but the plot.

* * *

 

 

 **O** nce upon a time there was a greatest love story ever told.

People wept about it and mourned about it, yet forgot about it as soon as they read the last word of the last page.

But they were fools, all of them. For they didn't know one fact.

It wasn't over yet.

 

* * *

**_Gather around, gather around - yes, the lil one can sit on my lap here, then you won't have to sit on the grass - yes, yes, just like that, a curve of people under the smiling moon. It was at times like these when the power of storytelling is at its strongest, you know? Around a fire, under the moon, and with a story told by a crying jester._ **

**_Don't cry you say? No, silly lil boy, I am not crying, it is merely splattered paint. Aye, we do have a good crowd tonight, don't you say lil one? Ve-ry...what's the word? Ah yes, diverse._ **

**_T_ ** **_ell you a story you say? A good story for a good crowd, methinks that is only proper, don't you say?_ **

**_Lemme think, a good story for a good crowd, one 'o one has ever heard of. Hm...ah! ...No...too dangerous, 'o good 'o good, another one - is it good you ask? Yes, of course. My stories are always good. And it is real, so all the better it is when told. Tell it you say? You want to hear it you say?_ **

**_What is your name, child? Max? 'Tis a good name young Max here have. You say you are not afraid? No one needs to be afraid. Stories are not meant to scare, only awe. Oi, and you have blue eyes child? My story's got blue eyes as well, the most beau-tiful blue eyes._ **

**_Well, it seems like the stars tonight has taken a certain shine upon you, don't you say - to show me 'hat twinkle in your eye. All the more 'eason to tell you the story then._ **

**_'lright._ **

**_The tale I am about to tell is a tale you probably have never heard of before, for it is never supposed to be told, one way or another. But it is the truth, and methinks we deserve it at the very least. Though, do remember, just as the saying goes, some truths, perhaps, are better left unsaid._ **

**_It all began on a late July morning upon a wooden bench in a train station._ **

**_Picture the grandest train station you have ever gone to, perhaps the one in New York, multiply the grandness and gold by ten times and you will have the train station right. Now amidst the gold and glamour, there is a simple wooden bench, handle-less and un-crafted. It is just sitting there, timeless as the station itself and older than the land it sits on, solemn and silent as the unforgiving God of Time._ **

**_Now picture a boy sitting upon it. A young boy, just over the age of twenty, with a face as soft as the cut of flowers and eyes the colour of midnight blue the stars above us are resting on. The boy found the bench by accident, but grew to like it for its solidarity, thus marking it as his own by sitting on it, day after day, week after week, using it as his own personal workbench while he watches the way of the world._ **

**_Let's give him a name shall we? Let's call him -_ **

**_Alec._ **

**_The stage is set, the characters ready, and with the chime of a bell, the curtains shall raise and the play shall begin._ **

**_-Ding._ **

* * *

_**T** he dream was always the same._

"May I have your attention please - Train number 57 is now boarding on track number 4."

Black mahogany wood marked with gilded calligraphy arched elegantly over the ceiling, adorned by faint yellow lamps swinging by the light breeze. From its central point, four ribs radiated across the vast space until they reached the circular arcade of a hundred arched windows, standing on both sides of the train station. In some mornings, when there were fewer people bustling about, sunlight would stream through the glass shards and reflect, uninterrupted by shadows, onto the floor the mosaic of daydreams and memories. Alec liked the train station best during such mornings, when natural light was piercing through the black space and allowing visitors a faint glimpse into fantasy, carefully crafted by the subtle ephemeral beauty of the light.

Leaning his weight against the bench, fingers idly playing with a rebel string at the edge of his cuff, Alec watched the crowd stream through the platform. Some were preparing for their coming trip the departing trains downstairs would lead them towards, some waiting for carriages to begin their journey from the station, and some, like he himself, was simply there. Suitcases and parasols laid in groups of their own, piled up against one another in a nearly artistic manner of civilization, awaiting their owners to lead them off to a new life.

This was what the train station essentially was for, a way and hope for a novus vita, a new life.

Alec saw a boy running across the black tiled floor into the arms of a young woman, two lovers whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears, an old man sweeping the floor at a distant corner – and he found himself interested to the extent of obsession, watching the intricacies of the crowd as a bystander. It was individuals liked these that made up the world, as beautifully horrifying as it was, and Alec found himself wanting to know more about each and every one of them, wanting to meet the complicated clockwork that made up the world they lived in. For everyone had a story, and as insignificant as they might seem to be, there was always a meaning, an intriguer to it that made you want to know about the ending. That was after all, the reason why they called it a 'story'.

"Penny for your thoughts?" A sweet voice cut through his mind and he raised his eyes to the familiar girl, who was holding her hands out, using the line literally. Alec shook his head and fished a penny out from his coat pocket, dropping it into the eager ungloved palms.

He never knew what her name was, he never thought to ask nor did she disclose it, so neither did he return the favour. But somehow, despite the secrecy, he and the girl with long black hair had developed a mutual liking, and after two coincidental meetings at the same place in the train station, established a strange companionship. He stole a glance at the clock behind the girl – 12:42 pm – right on time.

"Anything new at the station?" the girl asked, flinging herself lightly down onto the bench next to Alec, her black hair fanning out across the back of her elaborate yet rather thin frock. Alec could feel lingering male attention directed towards them, and struggled off his coat, dumping it onto her lap despite her surprised protest, hiding the girl's nearly-bare legs.

"Not to the extent that it will interest you. It isn't a shoe shop, nor is there a new handsome chocolatier." Alec chuckled as she puffed in annoyance. "It's a bookstore."

"Right up your alley then, bibliomaniac."

"It's 'bibliophile'. 'Bibliomaniac' means a book lover gone mad." He countered without thinking, recalling the day when the bookstore opened.

_He was running in the darkness, searching - searching for something, or someone - and the same voice was at his ear, urging him on._

It hadn't been a glamorous event. There hadn't been flowers or crowds or a party, it had merely been an unlocking of a door and a turning of a hanging sign from "Closed" to "Open". Alec had been sitting right here, on this same bench when the store opened in the far right corner of the station, just visible from where he sat.

It was a dainty little thing, walls polished with a vintage dark blue, a stark contrast to the gilded train station. Standing by itself, a certain distance away from the florist next to it and cloaked by the shadows of the two big columns in front of it, the bookstore seemed to be more prone to loneliness than being accustomed to his more sharp and friendly counterparts.

There wasn't a clear name to the store, and only a line of calligraphy decorated the exterior, where the name post usually hung – "We live and breathe words". Alec had taken the quaint line as the utmost reason for the store's strange pull to him, a store that was unlike any other bookshops, for it had described to him an absolute truth he actually agreed to.

Alec hadn't had the chance to step into the store however, as at that precise moment when he reached it; there was a sharp chime in the air, signifying him to return to his post downstairs. Magic at its finest and cruelest.

This was that time of the world when magic was wielded by the lucky few to possess it without falter or hesitation, when magic and powers alike were not frowned upon by society but treated as normalcy. The time when warlocks and faeries and fantastical creatures were no longer named 'freaks' by the ignorant but treated as people. The time when magic was at its strongest and undeterred by mundane tales of horror, when magic was used to the world's greatest advantage and promised efficiency.

But magic, despite its strength and exoticism, hadn't stopped him from glimpsing the only book on display at the bookstore under the faint blue light – "The Bane Chronicles".

_The same warm voice, lilted by a foreign accent, yet soothing to the ear. Unrecognizable, yet somehow familiar, saying the same word over and over, his own name -_

"Alright, bibliophile, what I was hoping to tell you is that there is this ne –" The girl chatted on, glancing at the boy next to her. He was very pretty, she decided, with that mob of black hair hanging down onto the delicate hook of his nose and such deep blue eyes. She ran her eyes down his slender frame, one fit for a dancer, yet hideously hidden by a fraying waistcoat the colour of murky water. She really should take him clothes-shopping soon.

Lifting her eyes back up to his face, she studied the defined plane of the pale white skin, noticing how a line of light from the windows was enveloping him into a glittering tapestry, resting its trail on his thin gentle lips.

It was a sort of uncharted beauty of a fallen angel that had hung itself onto the innocent canvas, who did not know he possessed it, who, she suspected, would never know he possessed it.

Lowering her eyes down towards the ground before he noticed her staring, the girl decided that she liked him. Not in the way of a lover, but one of a big brother. Sitting next to him was comfortable, and it brought her a sense of familiarity, the familiarity of a long-forgotten home. But that was another story, she thought as she recalled another place in another time, and a boy with shaggy brown hair, and it was one she would rather not remember.

Reverting her attention back towards the silent boy, she arranged the bonnet on her head because she felt a need to be a positive motivation for the male population, and banged her shoulder against his.

_Alexander._

"Hm?" He looked startled, as if he had just been shaken out of a reverie.

"I must take my leave now." She lied, knowing that there would be no further conversation when the older boy had something in his mind. The girl dare thought that it was about that bookstore and that book on the windowsill, it had, after all, been the only thing that had been going on in his mind just now.

Standing up, she twisted her wrists, letting out just the tips of the whips from the sleeves of her frock into her palms. With a flurry of white feathers, invisible to that of the unchosen ones, she set off with a smile into a darker corner.

 _Alexander Lightwood._  She remembered now, memories were coming back to her, slowly but surely, like the fall of snowflakes downtown.

 _Alec Lightwood,_  the girl amended with an easy smile,  _your story is just beginning_.

* * *

**_And thereby hangs a tale._ **

**_No no, the story is not over yet young Max, the story is far from over. This is only the beginning._ **

**_Come back to-morrow, in the open field under the apple tree. I will be there with a bonfire waiting, and a story to tell._ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Magnus is coming soon, I promise, but I do need to write up the setting first. I must confess though, that I do not have a Beta, and anyone who volunteers will be duly appreciated, so please do bear with me.
> 
> Also, faster reviews doth encourage faster writing.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading.


	2. Playground of Yesterday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go - please do tell me if there are mistakes, which I presume there would be, as I am horrible at proofreading :P

* * *

**Y** esterday, the stage was a joke.

To-day, it was chaos.

But by to-morrow, it will be a playground no more.

 

* * *

**_Oh hullo boy! So you made it huh? At a time so late, two nights in a row, won't your momma complain? Oh! She's here too? Where - ah there she is. I'm most delighted to be of your acquaintance m'lady, most delighted._ **

**_Do settle down everyone, some by the fire, some by the tree. The apples are most ripe at this time of the year, and they hang heavily upon the tree branches, fresh and red as the colour of blood. Pick and devour them if you wish. Tonight is going to be a long night. After all, winter is coming, is it not?_ **

**_We have a larger crowd to'night, don't we boy? All here to hear my story. 'Tis good, 'tis very good. Every story is worth a'telling, and every a'telling deserves a good, large crowd. It is through people that stories live - live and thrive - you know? Just as good 'ld Shakespeare says - so long as men can breath and eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee. Great words those, great words._ **

**_We live and breathe words, so let us breath some life into my story now, shall we?_ **

**_Aye? Aye._ **

**_T-onight, let us leave young Alec to his own peace and welcome to the stage the other boy now, shall we?_ **

**_Aye? Aye._ **

**_Picture then, a wild autumn field of yellowed withered grass, dry by the inconsistent rain and strong sunlight. On the field are a crowd, not of people, not of trees, but tents. Tents you see in carnivals and circuses, with a spiral on top and large round bases secured by pegs in the grassland wet with morning dew. Tents of blue and yellow, red and green, the contrasting tones reflect sharply off the land as if their presence itself is mystical, and undeniable. Standing in groups of varied sizes, their satin flaps billow in the wind, gently painting themselves into fantastical landscapes amidst the tingling of wind chimes._ **

**_Amongst the landscapes, right in the middle, stand the largest of them all - the tent, black and white, extends itself across the vast space in a spider web fashion, the smooth fabric held up by the two infamous masks of drama crafted together into a bronze statue of a spiral. Under the soft sunlight, the cloths of the simple colours are taut with the smooth curve of a crescent moon, stoic and esthetic. It is a tent crafted with a kingliness that attracts even the common eye, and a masterpiece only fit for the one who holds the highest honour in the group, of which in this case, the thespian playing the main role -_ **

**_Magnus. Magnus Bane._ **

**_And here enters our other hero of the tale. In all honesty, he is not a "hero" by any conventional sense, but more of a jinx, poison. A charming one, no less, one that will grow on you like fungi, poisonous yet beautifully deceitful, luring you to touch - just a ti-ny lil touch - him. For it is so easy to love him, for his face, for his smile, for his voice, and for the dangerously uncaring way he holds himself._ **

**_The morning is young and the boy is sleeping._ **

**_Hush now._  
**

* * *

_**T** he dream was always the same._

Starlight glistened in the distant corner of the clouds and faded away into nothingness with the parody of time as night gave way to day. An ominous silence descended onto the field as sleep enveloped all living creatures, creating a peculiar scene of stillness upon the fluttering tents. Gentle autumn wind swept across the field with the touch of a feather, endearing, calming as it ran past the tingling chimes in a suit of carelessness, breaking the silent spell bestowed upon the land without the need for dramatic flair.

A soft ray from the unbecoming ring of fire crept between the flaps of black and white and onto soft eyelids and oriental skin, shedding light into the - if not a mess, nothing else - lebensraum of the jocular thespian and woke said thespian with a petal touch of sunlight.

_He was standing in the darkness, all alone, trying to find a way -_

Magnus spread his ringed fingers across the satin sheets and wondered to himself if the book was ever going to be read.

"The Bane Chronicles", it was called, as if it was some sort of mystical series of adventure and romance, of action and camaraderie, something that was bound to be popular. That was what attracted Magnus to audition for it in the first place - to enjoy the thrill of being read, being heard, being envisioned by the readers, again and again. It was a joy unlike any that was derived from materialistic gains, and purer than the white of seraphs' wings. But to achieve that, the book had to first be popular and you had to be read.

Apparently, however, "The Bane Chronicles" was not the least bit interesting, for Magnus had been waiting for four hundred years, and not once had it been opened.

He couldn't understand the reason why, but he didn't want to admit that all the rehearsals he had been to and the lines he had recited were a complete waste of time, so he never tried to think about it, for they say that when you think too hard about something, it would come true.

And Magnus wouldn't dare,  _couldn't_ bear, to let that happen.

_A way back to somewhere, or someone -_

"Wakey, wikkity, wakkity up!" Magnus, too, could never understand how Ragnor's voice could be equally annoying and idiotic without shame. Nor the fact why he could stay unnervingly positive after all this time.

But then again, he supposed that was required of him, given his role as the long suffering director.

Magnus rolled onto his stomach with a muffled groan as determined thumping coupled with the angelical voice resounded across the dark interior of his tent in a droning epiphany. Nuzzling his nose into the pillow, a desperate act of escape from the coming intrusion, he furrowed his brows, silently screaming his annoyance into the satin sheets, directing his well learnt obscenities towards his friend with the unmistakable complexion.

"I AM UNDRESSED! NUDE! TO THE POINT OF COMPLETE NAKEDNESS!"

A billow of wind from the entrance announced Ragnor's arrival and his complete disregard of Magnus' words.

The thespian stood up without bothering to maintain any kind of coverage. He hadn't been lying. Standing up in all his pride and glory, almost sulkily, though of the highest dignity he would muster, he crossed his arms defiantly and asked,

"What's the matter, my dear emerald prince?"

Ragnor averted his eyes in a practiced fashion, resting the twinkling dark orbs onto Magnus' face, his breath not the least laboured, his cheeks unblemished by the slightest touch of a blush.

Why Ragnor was not the least attracted to him was another mystery to Magnus. The child of the East took pride in his appearance, as much as he did in his profession as an artist. He took pride in his sculptured face and high cheekbones, he took pride in his lithe body that was well proportioned by any standards and his flawlessly tanned complexion, he took pride in the fact that the golden hue enlightened his slits of eyes, the golden-green orbs beauties in their own rights, their mischievousness impossible to be duplicated by even the most talented with a brush. And he took pride in the fact that he considered himself beautiful despite the negligence he was doused in day after day, that he considered himself human despite everyone elses' claims of the complete opposite.

"Get dressed. It's show time. Someone is opening the book."

•¤•

_ A _ _nd he was murmuring something, a word reverberating in his mind over and over, a name -_

"This is not some sort of a prank, is this?" Magnus asked as he slipped on the waistcoat, his costume-in-waiting. He realized that he was running, and frowned when he couldn't stop, as if there was some kind of magnetic force pulling him towards the stage where he belonged, though he didn't mind, not exactly. He was, however, vibrating with a controllable excitement as he slipped into the tent right next to his majestic one, and observed the scene before him.

It was sublime chaos.

On one side of the room, artists with a skilled hand at makeup surrounded his dear friend Catarina, dabbing onto her lips bluebell petals, highlighting her complexion despite her protests. Another group was furiously running around the tent, consulting the pages of the book, timing the changing and exchanging of the backdrops and props. Sounds of the cutting of fabric, the flipping of pages and the neighing of horses on the field brushed up a symphony to Magnus' ears, and all the orders from the director next to him faded away into silence as he derived power from the energy and passion unfolding before him.

_Yes, this was what he auditioned for. This was what the book was supposed to be._

A young artist entered his sight as he rushed forward to touch up on the thespian's face. Magnus inquired himself exactly why the boy was there and plucked the eyeliner from his eager hands, asking for a mirror.

"The reader is opening page 83! Magnus, page 83! Can you hear me? MAGNUS?!" Magnus glanced at Ragnor, who was gesturing frantically in front of him, and nodded.

"Yes I hear you quite clearly." He replied as he started to examine his nails, having worked his magic on his eyes in front of the mirror the boy with the expression of a kicked dog held for him on tip toes. He decided that they needed a touch of glitter, and grabbed one from the a nearby hand.

"THEN MOVE! MOVE YOUR ROYAL  _ARSE_  TO THE STAGE!" Ragnor had taken a delightful shade of green, one often seen in packets of frozen sprouts.

"Most gracious set of language you have Ragnor." Magnus smiled to himself as he started towards the stage, motioning for the boy to follow him.

The stage was ready for him, page 83 flipped open and free, and Magnus stood just at the edge, admiring the stage that took the form of the book and his reflection in the mirror, ignoring the desperate roar behind him. He suspected that he would never be too late to get onto the stage, for there seemed to be a kind of magic that surrounded his world, a protective spell which shielded it from the one beyond the page, or perhaps it was the other way round. He turned around, this was a page that required his solo performance, and everyone else of the cast and crew and the scattered props were a clear distance from the stage, as if hoping to not reveal themselves and their world to the reader. Ragnor resembled enchantingly to a withered leaf and Magnus thought dimly to himself that he ought to take him to audition for the role of trees once this performance was over.

_Alexander._

Magnus took his place on stage just as the book cracked open and a gist of light illuminated the ground he was standing on. Through the mist let up by the gathered dust, he narrowed his eyes into a thin line and peered out to the world beyond the page.

A corner of his lips perked up as he took in the reader, and an unconscious gentleness stole into his face, molding it into a perfect imitation of an angel.

A slither of dust flurried down from the crack of the book, once again blurring the scene before him. The gentle yellow light of the lamp from behind the reader lit up the stage, and amidst the noise of the crew, amidst the desperate whimpers of the artist at his side, the dusty, blurry scene before him luminated, as if the dust was not dust but falling snow, as if this could be the beginning of something...wonderful.

_Hullo blue eyes._

* * *

**_And thereby hangs a tale._ **

**_No, don't fret dear child, stories should not be told too quickly, and all at once, or what's the fun in that, eh?_ **

**_To-morrow night, meet me by the fire under the sycamore tree. Only then and only there, shall the mystic tale be shared._ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Satisfied with Magnus? I do hope I did him justice with his portrayal. Anyhow, the backgrounds are set and the play shall finally start. Excited?
> 
> Again, reviews are savoured with the utmost delicacy :)


	3. Under the wide and starry sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, a whole month. I am so sorry, but here's a longer chapter :P

* * *

 

 **O** thers watched the night and only saw the stars.

 

 I watched the night and found the dark blue sky.

 

* * *

 

**_The time is late and I have nothing much to say tonight. So let's get right to the story, eh?_ **

**_Now, where was I?_** ****

**_Ah yes, the lil thief at the train station_ ** **.**

 

* * *

 

 **T** he sun had just climbed over the curve of the hill and a damp chill was stealing in through the arched window into the attic under the cover of night like an avenging ghost. And revenge was its nature as it gathered into a dark shadow upon Alec's head, creeping up on him in slits and corners, reminding him of what he had done.

It had been a month since the bookstore opened in the far right corner of the train station.

It had been a week since Alec stole "The Bane Chronicles" from the bookstore.

Alexander Lightwood worked as a public defender for the train station, which in a good sense meant maintaining peace and order on each and every train that departed; and yet to be completely frank, there really weren't much to do except for the rare grab-and-go (of which was often a misunderstanding), so his job really was just being a guard dog at the safest place on earth.

The day Alec became a thief had been a Tuesday, and like any other Tuesdays, he started off with a cup of rich black coffee at his bunk in the attic.  

Now Alec was allowed to stay at the station given his job, and he had chosen the attic mainly due to two reasons - it being free of charge, and because no one was living in there.  

Upon reservation the boy had pondered on the fact why he had no roommates, of which he acknowledged with slight satisfaction, but he understood the reason the second he stepped onto the attic grounds, which was in fact, the ceiling of the station. 

It was too quiet. 

The silence across the top floor was overwhelming, even to a certain sense, suffocating, as it wiped out sound like darkness wiping out light. Creeping up against you like the crash of a wave, it dulled your senses and immersed you in the fugacious scene before you – golden light spilled down onto the silent wooden grounds as it dipped and curled to form the breathtaking majesty of the nameless train station. The wood was a dark royal brown, peculiarly fragranced by the scent of jasmines and acorns, refreshing without being too sweet to the nose, much to Alec’s delight.

The boy had heard about the fear of silence among the common, heard how people buckle and fidget under the oppressiveness as if the mere devoid of sound itself was a kind of pressure they couldn’t hold up against. 

But that was precisely why he liked the attic.  

Alec liked silence. He loved the serenity of soundlessness, the tranquility of being completely earless and voiceless; he had often thought that the world would have been a much brighter place if it was silent, so there would no longer be betrayal of secrets, voice-risings and unintended words that could not be taken back. 

It was in times of complete reticence when he discovered little things – the small blue flower between the vines entangling in graceful flight across the gates, the crisscrossing of veins in withered leaves under the dance of bright sunlight, the patterned movement of ants as they crawled across windowsills searching for food. It was in times of quietness when he conceived critical ideas – the meaning of responsibility, the extent he would go to to not disappoint, the question of his sexuality. And most important of all, it was in times of obmutescence when he read. 

Alec had always been a lonely boy. And it was in books that he realized he didn’t have to be. It was in books that he found a heaven he did not have to earn the way into. It was in books that he found there were some things that would never disappoint. Reading was his consolation, his escape, he read for the pure pleasure of it; he read for the comforting words resounding across his mind like the gentle lilt of a mother’s lullaby, the most beautiful music of all times; he read for the plain, simple reason that he would die without it. 

Reading was the one simple joy he could hold on selfishly to himself without harming anyone, and it was a joy he treasured to the bottom of his heart.

 But perhaps he was too selfish about reading to steal for it. 

•¤•

The cuppa had been refreshing, and it had reminded him of the free afternoon ahead. All days alike, the rush hours were packed in early mornings as arrivals and departees flocked into the station in search for their new stage in life. That Tuesday morning had been particularly hectic, but the day had rolled by nonetheless amongst chitters and chatters of this new plague in New York, and had left Alec with half a day to do whatever pleaseth him. 

And like any other Tuesday afternoon, he started passing the time with a stroll around the station, but this stroll was unlike other strolls, this one was with purpose. On any other Tuesdays he would stay back and visit some of his favourite stores and people, but not on that day, not that day - he bypassed the gentle on-street musician with a face of the child of the moon; the musician's eccentric friend and lover who write letters for people behind his little stand at the entrance of the post office; the endearing redhead, now mother, working at the florist; and her mechanics husband. Around the corner, he walked past the store selling oddities of many different kinds - man-made gloves, pigeon feathers and glass shards from mosaic windows; the candy store across the fountain in the middle of the concourse, its wooden interior packed with huge jars of candy necklaces and jelly apples, boxes and boxes of chocolate eggs and columns hanging up lollipops with swirls the colours of rainbows; the hat shop overflowing with bonnets and feathers and finally, finally, stopped at the bookstore in the far right corner of the station. 

He had walked with the feeling as if there was a gust of wind beneath his feet. He was a fighter, and admittedly he was quite graceful on his heels, but this was a different feeling, it was as if he was walking on air, as if something, or someone was delivering him to - the bookstore. He wasn't sure exactly why he had not visited this particular shop since its opening as he usually would, given the products it was presumably selling, and that the other bookstore at the station had closed down some several weeks ago. But better late than never, eh? 

A tingling of chimes announced his presence and Alec groaned inwardly, he had never been a fan of attention. Much to his relief, however, as he squinted his eyes to take in the dark interior of the store, he could see not a soul beside himself.  

As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, the boy realized that the store was not as dark as it came on to be. A few dim yellow lights blinked into existence in four corners, one of which hung directly above his head, illuminating the space before him.

It was much bigger on the inside. 

There were no shelves and stacks of books laid sideways in columns around him, forming an arc like the curve of the crescent moon. On both sides of the room were rows of bound leather books put in no apparent order, their names strewn on by the finest silk along the sides of the jackets in unfamiliar fonts, some in foreign languages, sloping across the spine like words on ancient spell books, to fascinate and to dare. 

What was surprising however, was the small channel that ran straight through the center of the store, with a depth of about a foot, where water curved and twisted into two ditches of elaborate pattern at one end on either side of Alec. The boy could not see where the water came from, or where the channel began at, but the water was flowing and was very much alive.

Upon the water in the center floated four white lilies, on which floated another four candles, black as the darkest of nights. A stand of stone stood between the lilies, and a heavy balance rested upon it.

The balance was of solid bronze, un-dented and un-chipped. Slightly faded at the edges, its two scales hung in a level balance, silently swinging by an unknown wind, blurred by the candlelight, which seemed to have flickered to life the moment Alec set his eyes upon them. 

But despite the mystical air of the whole situation, the dark haired boy remained uninterested, he was uninterested in the water, uninterested in the flowers, uninterested in the scales. For something was missing.

That thick book of blue leather that had caught his eye on that morning was not on the windowsill anymore. This disappointed him immensely and almost made him leave, which, in turn, made him question exactly why he was here. He wasn't here for other books, evidently, nor was he coming here purely for the sake of it. He came here for one reason and one reason only - "The Bane Chronicles". 

Raising his eyes from the flickering candles, Alec glanced around the shop, hoping to salvage the best out of the situation. Walking to the left side of the store, he surveyed the stacks, trying to find something that would arouse his interest in any way. But the words were blurring, and his interest was diminishing. 

A ray of sunlight in the opposite side of the store caught his attention - natural light inside a store with tainted, curtained windows was bound to arouse curiosity, but what really attracted Alec was the object the sun was shining on. A book, a very particular book.

Heavily set on a stack of books, slightly secluded in the darker corner of the store, its cover was of a gorgeous black leather, yet upon closer inspection, you would duly realize your mistake. There was a tinge of blue against the black with golden silk for its name, and the faded soft leather was vintage by nature, adding to its appeal and clarifying its age. 

It was a thick book, thicker than most of the other books in the store by at least four times. This excited Alec, this length of a book could last him days and weeks, even a month if he was especially careful and appreciative. He had not seen such a book so thick for a long, long time. He only wished that the content was worth the length as well. 

Taking a deep breath, sliding a hand against the jacket by some unconscious thought, he opened the book with the utmost care, as if he was unearthing treasure from the depth of the ocean. 

The paper was a creamy white, obviously protected by magic, as seen by the light sheen of glitter on the pages. Under the glow of the yellow lamp behind him, Alec had randomly opened a page, and as his eyes focused onto the words, his breathing stilled, and his mind wandered. 

The writing was beautiful, descriptive without being too flowery, and there was a sense of a melody to the flow of words, as if they were the lyrics of a long forgotten song. The page he had been reading was about how a man named Magnus (presumably the main character) was walking the streets of old England, contemplating about the puddles on the ground and the contents of his heart. Alec could almost picture the man, with a sharp tanned face and soft black hair bound back by a blue ribbon, an oriental beauty by the highest standards and a gentleman by his own rules. The boy wasn't sure exactly where all these came from, having been given so little description, but somehow, he knew what he was picturing, _who_ he was seeing, _was_ Magnus.

" _Oi!_ " 

Alec cursed and almost tore a page from the book before glancing up, blushing, into a face of an old man. 

"What in god's name do you think you are doing?" The man glowered, which was in a sense comical if he hadn't been actually angry. 

The newcomer looked about seventy of age, his face round and covered by a crown of white hair. His nose was slightly red, and stood out from his beard, his eyes were two twinkling blues, mischievous and remarkable with the look of hysterical brilliance. He looked exactly like Santa Claus in those children's books if not for his worn out tweed suit, which made him look all too much like a retired professor. 

A retired professor who was very angry indeed. 

"I - sorry sir, but um, I was uh - r-reading?" Alec replied, cursing himself for the stuttering. 

"And who told you that you can just waltz into here and _read_?" The old man looked positively flabbergasted and Alec was quite, quite alarmed. 

"Well, sir," The boy wasn't sure exactly why he was using the word 'sir', but it seemed fitting as he glanced around the store, "It's a bookstore."

He looked at the man, who seemed to be waiting for elaboration.  

"And I am under the impression that you can read in bookstores?" Alec ended his explanation with a question. 

Which seemed to be the wrong answer as the old man huffed,

"You young uncultured swines, thinking you could just _waltz_ into some store like mine, and _touch_ these precious books without my acknowledgement, god, the _generation_ nowadays, such a failed experiment -" Stumbling far back into a dark corner, he sat himself down onto a chair that looked quite comfortable and simply glared at Alec.  

Alec could now see where the man came from, and he was glad that the elder was not a materialization, but he could not understand his disdain towards Alec's, frankly, normal actions and decided, stubbornly, to glare right back.

Then thought better of it when the man's eyes narrowed and decided to apologize. The elder seemed to be the owner of the store, and Alec would not have wanted to be banned from buying that book he desired and from ever going to the store again. This was the only bookstore in the station after all. 

"Look, sir, I apologize for not asking before reading the books, but I do, oh god, I do love books." He stole a glance at the old man, who seemed to be wearing the beginning of a smile. "So please, sir, forgive my mistake." 

A warm laughter rang through the small room and Alec began to question whether or not he had buckled too soon. 

"You apologized. Ha! Actual apology. Oh dear, I genuinely sounded mean, did I not?" The man blinked his eyes at Alec, whom nodded tentatively. 

"Glorious!" The old man glanced at Alec again, cackled for another good two minutes, before seemingly to have collected himself, and enveloped the dark haired boy into a hug. "I must apologize, dear child, I do not mean to alarm you. I was merely playing a lil game with you.  Though -" He clicked his tongue. 

"The no touching part is real. The books here are very old and incredibly important, to one person and another. So do be careful lil'un." 

Alec detached himself from the warm bosom of the man, his mind slightly fuzzed up by all the new information, and started murmuring a new string of apology all over again, only to be stopped by the elder. 

"Apologies can solve nothing, so stop apologizing. Now, you seemed to be reading a special book, weren't you?" The old man's eyes twinkled, and it was only now when Alec saw the paint in the shape of a tear below his left eye.  

"Well, sir -" 

"No 'sir', call me 'The Bookseller'." 

"Alright si - um, Bookseller, I was reading this." Alec gingerly picked up "The Bane Chronicles" and handed it to the eager hands of the bookseller. 

"Ah. "The Bane Chronicles", a very old book, boy. Mind sharing why?" He fixed the twinkling blues upon Alec's midnight blues. 

"I...don't know. I just do, is there a reason you particularly want to read a certain book? What I mean is, this one fits all the categories of an interesting read, the cover is beautiful, the words are nice, the length is suitable - "Alec knew he was mumbling, but he honestly could not configure the reason why he was attracted to such a book, and now that this was brought to his attention, it only intensified his desire to read the book.

"Mhm." The old man seemed to be judging him, but the look disappeared once he glanced back towards the book in his hands. "You know boy? The cover of this book had changed for numerous times, from blue to brown to an enchanting green. Then in the last hundred years it had been just black, dull without the blessing of life." 

He paused before continuing in a lighter tone. "Yet somehow, in these few years time, it changed again, and it was coloured by this gorgeous midnight blue. Lovely shade, isn't it?" 

The man glanced at Alec and caught his eyes, and just as suddenly, as if a switch was turned off, his smile ceased and his eyes dimmed. 

"Though I believe the colour will fade into black again during one of these days, this time a black devoid of any light. And this time, forever." Lowering his line of sight back to the book, his voice grew lively again.

"You - want to buy this book?"

"Yes, very much." Alec replied with the same liveliness, all the more interested by this information about the book's various editions,  though he was a bit curious as to why he hadn't seen it before, or any other books in the bookstore for this matter.

"Alright then, let's see if you are worthy." The bookseller then took the book and placed it onto the one side of the balance in the center of the store, the heaviness of the leather bound book immediately upsetting the scales and sending the other end up into high air. 

Alec stood at the other end, not entirely sure what he should do. 

"Well get on with it boy," The old man glanced at him and instructed, "Give me something of yours, a coin, a token, anything." 

Alec was duly confused, but did as instructed anyway, unwrapping his blue scarf from his neck and handing it to the bookseller.

 _This was never going to work._ Alec realized in despair as the old man moved to put the scarf on the other end _._ He seemed to be trying to balance the scales again. _The man must be playing me._  

"If the balance is level, then you are worthy." The old man mentioned, proving Alec's line of thought. 

Miraculously, however, the scales started to level once the scarf was put upon it, despite the obvious difference in weight, and the two were almost in balance before, suddenly, as if the book thought better of it, plummeted back down onto the ground and sat in silence.

"Seems like you cannot be the owner of the book, boy." The bookseller sighed and handed Alec back his scarf, while putting the book gingerly back into its place. "Looks like the book's owner doesn't want you in his life anymore."

 _What?_ "What?" 

"N'thing, boy, n'thing." The bookseller seemed to have forgotten about his slip of tongue, so Alec let it go. 

"So I can't buy it? Nor read it?" Alec asked, almost pleadingly. 

"No. Fate has spoken." The old man started to shuffle back into his corner before Alec stopped him.

"No." Alec echoed. Fate had no role in this, the mistress of cruelty had never acted in his favor, and he had abide by its rules for such a long time, but fate would not stand against him reading. Not now, not ever. "Tell me why I meed to be worthy to buy the book, it doesn't make sense in any way."

This time, Alec could see that he really had made the man angry.  

With a controlled fire in his eyes, almost like the calm before a storm, his voice took on a thunderous roll. 

"Because books have souls." He paused, licked his lips and then continued, "Writers poured their hearts into their writings in hopes of finding someone who shared with them the same passion, the same love. To find that someone who they could connect with in each and every way. Every story is fathomed from an author's breaths, his mind, his entire existence. Tales are derived from his life experiences, his imagination, the very core of a writer's profession. Each word you read, each sentence you hear has went through trials and re-trials, just so it may be nearer to perfection, just so it may come close to the heart of the author, and just so readers can enjoy them. Books are declarations of someone's life." 

"You can always read a book. But you need to be worthy to understand the story behind it." 

 _Oh._  

"I - I guess I've never seen it in that way." Alec took a step back, hanging his head down in defeat and shame. He didn't mean to be unappreciative, yet nonetheless, the speech only intensified his want towards the book, for he wanted, _so_ much to be the only one who understood the words between the lines. 

"Well you _damn_ well should have!" The old man's eyes had softened now, the storm had calmed and the thunder receded. "But perhaps later, perhaps you would be worthy then."

The Bookseller then turned and shuffled his way back into his spot in the darkness, leaving the store in silence.

Alec ran his eyes longingly along the sides of "The Bane Chronicles", then started towards the outside in the steps of an old man in turmoil -

Only to turn around, grab the book, and run out of the door. 

•¤•

It wasn't until that night when he realized what he had done. And at that precise moment he was left with such a sense of shame that he didn't return to the attic till the edge of dawn every day for a whole week, leaving the book on the shelf next to the bed untouched and unread.

He never returned to the bookstore.

•¤•

And so the book laid silently there, on the edge of the bed, brooding as if it was the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden, enticing and lovely as it lured the young maiden to take a bite - but of course, not only the snake did its job in cultivating the downfall of humans, the fruit too had a hand in the game, being as beautiful as it was. For at the end of the day, the snake only did half the job, the glossy skin of the apple was the winning card - seductive as the devil itself, but Alec had resisted its spells - 

Until now. 

Under the wide and starry sky, Alec settled down onto his bed and drew a blanket around himself. Taking a deep breath, one he did not know he needed, he opened the book. 

•¤• 

Under the wide and starry sky, an old man stared at the empty space on top of a stack of books, his blue eyes dimming with each tick of the clock.

"I tried, Magnus." 

"Now it is up to you." 

 

* * *

 

 **_Tomorrow. Nine. The willow by the river._ ** ****

**_I shall meet you there._ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know. They still haven't met. But relationships take time, eh? Especially such a peculiar one as their's. Anyway, it will happen. I promise, soon.
> 
> Again, please reviewwww!


	4. A Gust of Luna Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God, I am sorry for letting this story rest for so long, I am sorry, I am sorry, here is the next chapter. I am sorry.  
> Zzz: Perhaps you are right, let's see if you want to be right later on, eh?  
> allofherstories: STAPH  
> Letsea: STAPH

 

* * *

 

 **A**  total lunar eclipse occurs when the moon passes directly behind the Earth into its umbra and the sun was in front, in a night of a full moon.

Rare as it is, it can sometimes last for a mere few minutes, but happened it has, and perhaps that, and perhaps then, is where the magic happens.

 

* * *

 

 

_**Hullo. Lil Max. Come sit by the fire, it is cold tonight and the moon refuses to set, even the stars shine bright with a cold intent.** _

_**But the crowd has gathered and the tale must go on.** _

_**Hush now.** _

 

* * *

 

Darkness descended upon the fluttering tents as the sun set in its common fashion.

But the day had not passed in the common fashion, it had passed in a much more different way, such that hope sat upon the residents in the world of "The Bane Chronicles" a little more solidly, filled with a surety like one would have of a letter bound to be sent when a stamp had been pasted on an envelope, and they awaited with unprecedented excitement for the next day to come.

 

* * *

 

Magnus sat, hunched, at the stairs that led up to his tent. His fingers were curled around a twig, his jacket billowing by the morning air, making him look smaller by the trick of light.

On the ground was a mass of dirt, smudged by hand, and next to it were two words written in thin, sloppy handwriting -

_Blue eyes._

It had been a mere twenty four hours since the last opening of the book, and Magnus admitted that he was slightly wimpy, but he had hoped - for so long - that he might have one performance, one grand performance from the beginning to the end, to show the world the name "Magnus Bane" and tell them what it meant.

But that hope had been short-lived.

The beautiful reader had closed the book almost as suddenly as he had opened it, and had left in Magnus a hollowness he could not explain. It wasn't the sort of loneliness he was accustomed to, but a rather inconspicuous longing - a longing for another glimpse of the outside world, and for an attention long being deprived of.

 _A lovely source of attention too._  Magnus thought wistfully to himself as he scrawled a few more illegible words onto the dirt.

The stage had been moved a few hours ago, and the land next to his tent was now a wide deserted green patch of land. The tent encasing it had been discarded and the model of the book stage expended to cover the whole of Magnus' world with a bit of storytelling magic. The larger, open space ensured flexibility, and less chaos if the reader decided to open the book again, but that also meant that the residents had to be ready at all times and at anywhere.

The residents were not worried, however, not even a little bit, for as long as they had their sense of purpose, a time to shine again, then it was all that mattered, no matter how long they had waited, and how long still did they need to wait.

Whilst everyone else had been greatly excited by this short encounter, many had been hopeful for the reader's return and had started to make refinements into things they had been in charge of - tailors sewed away into the night, reeling Magnus' clothes from his dresser on carts to their respective tents; actors rehearsed and recited their lines in multitudes, training themselves in articulation and expressions; Ragnor seemed to be even more optimistic, his spirit uplifted by ten folds - his complexion was now a richer green, with just the visible tinge of red at the cheekbones - as he joined in discussions and research with his fellow producers, all the while running his own lines in his mind.

The excitement from seeing the reader had spread like a forest fire, consuming all but one tree -

Magnus.

It wasn't that he hadn't been excited, for he had been, and very much, but he hadn't been hopeful. Not for a second chance. Magnus had been the one standing on the stage, the one place where the link between the story world and the outside world had been the strongest, and he alone had heard the snitch of heated argument. He wasn't sure if Blue Eyes had won, and even if he had, if he wanted to read more of this book.

He didn't want to keep his hopes up, for he knew the devastation that disappointment could bring, and he did not want to use such a word to describe his potential friend.

That was all he ever wanted, a listener, a reader that read between the lines. Magnus thought perhaps that Blue Eyes could be exactly that.

He had always wanted a friend. A friend outside the book.

What he didn't know was that he had to wait another week till that had the possibility of happening.

•¤•

Night was in all its glory in the small world of "The Bane Chronicles", but the heavy hint of darkness was suppressed by the bright glow of lanterns strung across the tips of tents on the yellow field.

The reader was about to open the book again, and this time, everyone was ready.

Magnus was in complete bliss, in fact, he was feeling glorious, for this buzz of excitement, this energy, this was real, this was plausible, and he loved it to an extent that he never wanted this feeling to end. Never.

From what the dreams had told Ragnor, the reader was going to flip open the book at precisely nine o'clock, and he was going to be reading from the first page onwards, that was, from the beginning of Magnus' childhood (yes, he was named after his character, as were everyone else).

The child actor for Magnus was a fun little kid, joyous and untainted, talented too. Magnus had once teased him and named him "crybaby", of whom had cried almost immediately, of which led to the man's further teasing, until he realized that the boy was just crying on command.

Magnus called him Junior, or Mags. The thespian had likened him to be his successor, that was, if one day he died, that was, if it was possible. But whatever the case was, the boy was like him, only more innocent, only more the person he wanted to be.

At this moment however, Junior was not as composed as Magnus would like him to be. He was jumping around, mad as a rabbit in distress.

He was also shouting.

"Magnus. MAgNUS. MAGNUS."

"Yes, Junior?"

"I AM PERFORMING. AN ACTUAL PERFORMANCE I TELL YOU, WHERE I TALK AND ACT AND MOVE."

"Yes I know the meaning of the word, Junior."

"WELL THEN, WHY AREN'T YOU EXCITED? THIS IS THE OPPORTUNITY OF A LIFETIME. AND RAGNOR SAID THAT THE READER WOULD BE READING UP TO YOUR TRIP TO PERU.  _YOU_  WOULD BE PERFORMING TOO!" He laughed as he pranced and cart wheeled on the patch of withered grass. A lantern was hanging right above him, the red glow a soft commendatory upon his sharp features.

Magnus was excited, very excited, even, but his way of showing such emotion had always been sort of a controversial issue. Magnus was cold, not by nature but by habit and necessity. He had never found the need for emotions, and kept only the ones that would get him through the day, those who worked perfectly fine with sarcasm. For feeling was tiring, and a soft heart burdensome.

A hush landed upon the pastureland at that instant, and Magnus let his reply fade out with the sharp blow of wind as the pages flipped open.

The reader looked just the same.

The same black mob of messy hair, soft thin lips, slanted nose. The same spark of light in his eyes of midnight blue, the colour of the stars in the universe.

It was still A-

Magnus blinked. There was a moment when he could almost  _recognize_  the reader, as if he was not a stranger but a shadow from some faraway dream, a haunting ghost from the past. And it was as if he could remember seeing the boy's face before, and his name was, his name was -

The word slipped off his mind, made a quick turn in a corner, and was gone.

•¤•

The gentle strumming of a guitar resounded across the field as the band started playing a slow ballad of beginnings and nascencies. The actors were ready, Junior shrouded in a circle of light under the lantern, and with that, the clock hands turned, and the day drifted into night.

A thin veil of smoke lifted from the land of dreams and away from the eyes of the reader. The curtain lifted and the play had begun.

Junior stepped forward, enshrouded by the soft glow of the mellow lantern-light, words laid ready on his tongue. Words that were swift and sharp, soft and demanding, young and fearful. Words that were powerful and could cut like a sword, words that were subtle, words that hurt.

The soft lips opened, and the words escaped like lost stars falling into place, fathomed into endless constellations, adding reason to the meaningless shapes, spraying the dust of silver across the dark ominous universe of the mind. His expressions, emotions, conjured up images and metaphors, the most powerful and beautiful weapons unspoken, for there must be some truth in the fact that a picture spoke a thousand words. A quirk of an eyebrow, the lift of a lip, crystal tears, a hundred stories strewn into one tapestry of fate.

It was magic. Magic of the simplest kind, the magic of storytelling. An enchantment undaunted by the crucible of time and constraints of politics, fashioned by the very imagination of human beings, an enchantment that endured.

Magnus watched as images flashed in front of his eyes - Junior opening his eyes, Junior being slammed to the door, Junior, no,  _Magnus_ , screaming, Magnus crying, Magnus burning, Magnus shivering, growling and hurting, Magnus enduring. Magnus surviving.

Magnus living.

It was his own life story told in theatre art, a living rendition of his own survival. It was glorious.

And it was his turn now.

•¤•

Magnus stepped into the light, flexing his arms and legs, clad in soft leather and a cloud of feathers, festive clothes of vibrant colours and patterns, a grand liturgy of the carnival in Peru. Ragnor was by his side, dressed with less extravagance, with less style. But his shade of green was bright, and Magnus still found him tolerable.

"Ready?" Ragnor held a hand towards him, palm open and upright.

"Ready." The thespian replied, and clasped the older's hand, touching his thumb with his own. It was their own sign of good luck, back when they had been children in the training camp. Magnus never thought they would have a chance to use it again, to use it and mean it.

A gust of wind, and the leaves of the book turned over.

Magnus took a deep breath, his eyes dimming in concentration as he opened the gates of his heart – the heartstrings taut, sharp, unpracticed, and its music flowing like water from behind a dam, long secluded, long abandoned; yet rich and full all the same, as it was with the stars in people, as it was with matters of the heart.

The crowd hushed as Magnus stood still, a hand on his heart, head lifted upwards, waiting for the reader to turn the page. He was chosen as the main thespian for a reason, and for a long time the crowd had not had the chance to see him perform, partly due to the actor's cold nature, and partly because he had been depressed for a long while after the acceptance of the near impossibility of having a reader. They had feared him, for his cold smile and cat eyes, by his stinging mockery and cruel derision. But they had not denied the actor of their grudging admiration and respect. For everybody knew that despite all faults, there was one thing he could do better than any one of them - act.

Theatre is the art that had melted into Magnus' very soul. It was the curve of his smile, the colour to his sky, the spark in his life. And like all art, it started with no aim for greatness, with no heart of gold, but a simple desire to do something - a spark of fire spreading smoke into the simple lives of people, natural and genuine, like the flow of water and the setting of the sun.

But what made theatre different for Magnus, what made  _him_  different, was the dance. In the lift of his arms, the sound of his words, the opening of his eyes, dance flowed like the pale darkness of ink as it twisted and curled around the man like the reddest of ribbons, blossoming like the prettiest of flowers. It was as if he was the wind and the sun, strong and unpredictable, too bright to the eyes yet enchanting all the same. It was as if he was the sole bearer of the gifts of Dionysus, the wine god's passion a burning tread on his soul.

It was as if he was the art itself.

A swept of wind and - Magnus' lithe form was a quick glimpse of lean muscle and fluid grace, his steps light as the fluttering wings of a bird, agile as the pointing of a dragonfly's tail into water. His dark clothes swarmed like smoke and shadow across the wide yellow field, the colourful feathers sharply aglow as seraphims' wings, swinging back and forth as the wind went, painting the yellow field into a parade of radiance. Never was the thespian too rough in his actions, too hot in his gaze, too harsh in his words, yet there was this undeniable power behind the snap of his wrists, the fling of his hair, like that of the bubbling tension under an ancient volcano, like that of the daunting undisplayed prowess of a panther under the bright African sun.

Theatre was a dance of tango, a dance of seduction between the audience and the performer, and Magnus was the master. With a tip of his hat, a flick of his fingers, the world bent to his will, the light shone where it should, the wind blew where it should, and the book surrendered to Magnus its soul.

Music palpably unfolded, an organic beauty of improvisation and every note, every ostinato swarmed over the field like the growing fog in the Northern English land. Weaving his lines with timed precision along with his twists and curves, the Eastern man delivered a gentle, natural melody alongside his partner's, words of honey dew upon ripe apples under the soft glow of lantern light.

In the swift of the moment, the nocturne crescendoed and Magnus pranced - a soft arc of black against the star lit sky, a black crescent against the pale white moon and in that instant, the two overlapped and became one.

•¤•

The reader blinked and rubbed at his eyes, his mouth opening in a suppressed yawn.

Magnus lifted his arms in a graceful lilt, and drew a circle with his fingers in the wind, his back bowed in solemn tribute to the author.

It was about to end now, all the delight, the fun, the cheer, Magnus could feel it as surely as a poet was sure of his words. He marveled at the pull in his left chest when he felt the abandonment, where nothing had been, and he wondered if this could be the start of something new.

He could now see the curious eyes of the reader clearly, dark blue gems alight in awe and delight; and for a second they were trained on his own dilated pupils in the absence of light. For a second there was a connection, for a second silence reigned over noise, and for a second Magnus' cold heart was warm.

The clock struck twelve. And a bell from a far distant corner tolled under midnight's embrace.

The reader was about to close the book.

•¤•

The music faded, and the thespians slowed their actions, until they were but mute subjects of photographs, until only if they were viewed as a series of shots would they had been seen as an epic movie.

Magnus looked up towards the outside world. A wisp of black had escaped from behind the reader's ear like a feather of rebellious nature. He wondered what it would feel like to touch it and hook it back around the boy's ears; maybe it would be as soft as his own. He wondered if he would see the boy again, soon, he hoped, perhaps, perhaps -

"Tomorrow?" Magnus knew this was a futile attempt, but a man could always hope.

"Tomorrow." The reader sighed, his eyes still lingering onto the page.

Magnus froze, struck with surprise and was about to call out - when he realized that it had merely been a promise the reader made to himself, to empty air. The boy had not been talking to him, the boy had not known the existence  _of_  him.

" _Tomorrow_." Ragnor was by his side now, his lips opened in a disgusting imitation. Magnus swirled towards him and was delighted to note that he had turned a few shades paler under his glare.

And with that, night enfolded the small world of "The Bane Chronicles" under its wings once again, and everything returned into silence.

 

* * *

 

The moon hung high up in the sky, sacred as a celestial mansion upon the clouds. It was red, awash with blood.

It was a night of lunar eclipse.

The reader had closed the book then, flipping to no other pages, and gently let darkness descend upon the world of "The Bane Chronicles", soft as a feather and as if he had never been there at all.

But if he had flipped the pages,  _if_  he had, perhaps he would see two words scrawled in thin sloppy handwriting at the end of the first page -

_Blue Eyes._

 

* * *

 

_**Let us stop here tonight. The stars are bright but not aligned, as are the worlds of our heroes.** _

_**But there's tomorrow, there is always tomorrow.** _

_**Eight o'clock then. The large oak tree at the mountain, eh?** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am stilll sorry.


End file.
